"mower" poems
Love is a blind *****
And a wicked witch.
She's like a bill collector
And a heartbreaker.
Love is a light
Sometimes she's bright,
Sometimes she's dangerous
And very mysterious.
Love is contentious
Like a strange virus,
She kills at times
At times, she saves.
What's this phenomenon
That moves like the moon?
Love eludes some people
And for her, some will struggle.
To some, she's a white dove
Sent for them from above.
To those not lucky like us,
Love is just like a bad curse.
Love is the bedrock of life
Yet she hurts like a knife.
To few, she works like a lawn mower
And too few she's a lawn blower.
Love to some is like a quick shower
In no time it's all over.
The mystery of love
Is the tale of the black dove.
Love's seed was planted in Heaven
And blossomed in the garden of Eden
A long time ago on this earth,
It was the caveat for Romeo's death.
#IvanBrooksPoetry©
7/22/2018
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
I went to the garage to throw up and came out with a glass of water and a box to store my waste
I wish I had thrown up everything all that was me
But nothing came up but a wee little bit
Our adventure set off and to the shed we went only to be disappointed by the crude lawn mower
Once more the travels we set off on to the couch it is
Where he shows me a trick to alleviate my nauseous head
My legs spread for him and I cannot control the yes daddy slipping from my ***** ****** lips at the time
21 and **** with the tats he was everything I wanted and so the game began where his **** ****** my god **** tight *****
Age is just a number I'm 17 god **** it a responsible one at that with a job and friends and good grades and a future and here I am wishing I was good enough for this man
But I was
And he was cute and funny and sweet and
Gone
And this 17 year old sits waiting wondering what the **** do I do when I want but do not need and what the **** do I do when he may not want me
But baby I'm a jumper and the fall is scary but
Am I strong enough to crawl out of that hole again?
Am o stupid enough to chance it?
Will this even effect me as much as I'm playing into it?
I may not even like him when it comes down to it
But ****
I want to **** again
And I want to be loved
But these are indeed not the same thing my first time guy
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
Goodbye wasps
Goodbye bees
Goodbye pollen from the trees
Goodbye midges
Goodbye flies
Goodbye scorching cloudless skies
Goodbye seagulls
Goodbye ants
Goodbye sunbathers in tiny pants
Goodbye sunburn
Goodbye oiled skin
Goodbye iced drinks laced with gin
Goodbye tourists
Goodbye throngs
Goodbye men wearing sarongs
Goodbye hosepipe
Goodbye lawn mower
Welcome to the noisy leaf blower
Hello Autumn
Hello cool bright day
Hello rolling around in the hay
Hello harvest
Hello fruits
Hello hiking in hiking boots
Hello warm colours
Hello warm hearts
Good riddance Summer
Autumn starts
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change.
With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home.
To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'.
And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him 'Spic', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good.
Years later he kept pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead.
The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse.
Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething.
Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push.
I'll keep pushing.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,—alone,
‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim over night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
I left my place to know them by their name,
Finding them butterfly-weed when I came.
The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him,
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’
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I’m sorry for the Dead—Today—
It’s such congenial times
Old Neighbors have at fences—
It’s time o’ year for Hay.
And Broad—Sunburned Acquaintance
Discourse between the Toil—
And laugh, a homely species
That makes the Fences smile—
It seems so straight to lie away
From all of the noise of Fields—
The Busy Carts—the fragrant *****
The Mower’s Metre—Steals—
A Trouble lest they’re homesick—
Those Farmers—and their Wives—
Set separate from the Farming—
And all the Neighbors’ lives—
A Wonder if the Sepulchre
Don’t feel a lonesome way—
When Men—and Boys—and Carts—and June,
Go down the Fields to “Hay”—
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all day long, their banging disturbed me at my work
startling me from my reverie, lost deep in the world
of I Wish I Had A Heart Like Yours, Walt Whitman
the birds, returned early from wherever it is they hide
during the long winter, have come to fling themselves
against the over-sized picture window in my living room,
songbird pitch themselves into my poet's dull daytime
so that i am moved to rise from my desk, to look out,
to seek a bird flying away, or peer down to search for the
tiny body maybe roosting among the stalks of the overgrown
hydrangea, which captured autumn’s maple leaves, worn
like a Chicago matron's mink to keep the winter chill at bay
and, as the spring surrenders to the warmer days, i mow the
brightly greened grass, innocently cutting row after row,
to turn finally to the narrow strip nearest the picture window,
a mixture of grass, dried leaves and tiny twigs, all mulched
by the power mower, where i discover these dessicated bodies
exhumed from shallow graves at the base of the newly leafed
hydrangea, their stiff, dry feathers bristly, colored a washed
out grey, tiny feet tightly balled, with all the soft parts missing
and the beaks a startling white, as though bleached, bright against
the dullness of the little corpses which seem to have sunk into
the mosses of the yard, so that they lay preserved below the blade
for the first late-spring chore -- mowing the bird bone garden
i sleep with the bedroom window ajar despite the overnight chill
and dream of the memory of birds, their shapes, their white beaks
and, still, the bird songs wake me in the cool green spring morning
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
I sit there
Teacher talking
The people around me talking
But me I am not joining and I am still not listening to the teacher;
Like I should!
Instead of listening to the teacher I listen to the girls on my left
They are talking about a crush that one on of them have.
To my left boys talking about some girl they say in the hallway
Apparently, she is their friend’s girlfriend and she is cheating on him
The couple in front of me to awkward to actually talk
Randomly say random every now and then.
The girl sitting behind me tapping her pencil.
The mower outside the window. The kids in the hall running around making a scene.
I think about what I wanna do when I get home.
I think about so many things I lose myself.
I think about everything except what I should be doing.
I constantly move cause I can't sit still. I tap my pencil
everyone give me looks because of all of it
I want to focus I really do. That all I want to do.
I don't want to be distracted by everything around me that when that bell rings
I won't have a clue what the homework is or what we learned.
I don't want to go home and call up my friend
that has the same teacher two class periods before me and ask what we learned.
Everyone just says take medicine,
Just try harder.
But I don't want to take that medicine.
I don't want to alter my mind because I am to weak to control my own thoughts,
How do you think that makes me feel.
What causes me to do all this?
It isn't because I am dumb or stupid, or unable to learn.
It's because of my ADHD.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 9:56 PM UTC
The flood gates open when you smell the familiar scent from your past. Remembering times that were long forgotten in the back of your mind. Every person has that one scent that instantly draws them back to a simpler, happier time. That one scent that brings forth memories that were buried deep within your subconscious, dusts them off, and lays them out in the light.
The smell of your mother’s perfume - brings you back to when she held you.
The smell of play dough - brings you back to that small seat in the classroom mashing colors together.
The smell of your house - where you instantly feel safe and can be yourself.
The smell of cut grass - shows your father pushing the heavy lawn mower as you play outside in a spring evening.
The smell rain - brings you to a moment of renewed energy and excitement for what’s to come.
The smell of smoke - reminds you of late night talks around a bonfire.
The smell of your old boyfriend’s cologne - Hits you when you pull out his sweater and remember the night he gave it to you.
The smell of wood chips - where you spent many days playing and laughing with the friends you haven’t seen for a while now.
It comes when you least expect it. These smells of nostalgia enter through your nose and hit you straight in the heart. And you can’t help the evocative smile that pulls across your face.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
Behind the building,
a one hundred percent green certified building
an amazing feat of engineering-science-forward thinking
fabulously energy efficient cutting edge building
sit solar panels in the sweltering heat,
extra heat from the toxic clouds in the sky
which now envelop the Earth
There, under the panels sit a small band of sheep, who represent the
last little bit of progressive wonderfulness
visionary design and research based and proven
and the future because they eat the grass
and there is no need to use toxic fume producing
loud unnatural unsustainable lawn mower
But the grass is long dead.
It is just white and yellow and there are lambs
baby sheep who sit and pant underneath the
sustainable solar panels without a decent meal
in sight. Only stalks and yellow deadness
I suggest vitamins or supplements
after all there is no grass, only grass out
that is watered sustainably and is carefully fenced off
from the living sheep underneath the dead panels
behind the dead building.
Outrage from the forward thinking cutting edge
Wi-Fi custodians of the cement and metal building and panels,
panels that emit a high pitched hum
from a hot metal box and regulate the CO2 in each room automatically
The sheep are there to eat the grass
if you feed them, even to make them healthier
so that they may get up out of their hot suffering
and eat some stalks in addition to a little bit of supplemental feed
they will not eat the dead grass, and they are there to eat the grass
they are not there to be comfortable or healthy they are just sheep
But sheep are only living non human feeling beings
and not part of the forward thinking cutting edge metal and cement
technology that is worth a lot of money and was written up
in the paper and got the custodians attention and recognition.
And they are just suffering, hot, miserable animals
and despite all of our technology, Mars landing
solar panels to electricity advance thinking technological wonders
our compassion and empathy remain tight and selfish
and the dead things, not the living ones, are what we value
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
Nanu, I had a dream last night that you came back
From being gone almost 3 years
We embraced and I told you I missed you so much
It was bittersweet, really.
I had seen you, and then you disappeared.
Like a shadow, when the sun decides to sleep.
I could've slept eternally knowing I would've been with you; forever
I remember when you were first diagnosed with lung cancer.
You held a smooth stone and told me, "Emily this stone is going to heal me one day."
You told me how it would make you better.
I remember one thanksgiving you gave me a glass of your wine
It was, bittersweet.
Vinegary as it ate away my tastebuds
Sweet like strawberries marinading in sugar, only.. Wine is made out of grapes... You taught me that.
Its funny, you used to let me sit upon your lap when you mowed the lawn, it was my own mistake for crashing it into the fence.
It was, bittersweet.
I got to drive a lawn mower and you had to fix the fence.
I look back to how happy you were on the sun porch in the summer heat, especially when lightening would strike the area around us,
I'd hide my face in your tarnished sweater
It was, bittersweet.
This morning I stood in the snow
Weeping as I stared at the sky,
Then I remembered, you didn't disappear, you just went on vacation for awhile.
It's bittersweet, really.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
we promised each
other a
broken
lawn
mower
so we mowed
the dirt
instead
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
After the devastation came recuperation.
New shoots had sprung with alacrity
enough to establish a presence
in that walled garden,
contained to a strip
barely big enough for date and citrus
to thrive.
The neighbour waited twenty one seasons,
and with each season saw
young shoots
replacing the old.
Imaging a future
where grass might escape the confines
of concrete and sea
neighbour chose to start the mower,
move beyond boundaries,
and mow and mow and mow.
It's been twenty three days now
and still blades whirr
day and night
each hour inducing fresh rubble
to deter shoots, new seeds, hope.
The neighbour will retreat soon,
beyond the wall,
being temporarily satiated
with reek and wreckage,
knowing a day shall arise to return
for the fruits of the land.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Three striped cats daily demonstrate awakening:
a) BijaChen: startles by pounce onto bed or banging of sunlit window blinds;
b) BlueMonsoon: prefers annoying whining coordinated with scratching at blankets;
c) LadyFiona: chooses a prickly psychic stare into my sleeping consciousness to disrupt dreams. (she must have been a witch's cat).
Sleep you say?
Mr. Rooster, lover of Flathead Lake cherries,
rehearses a solo operetta while strutting sharp grey claws inches from the screen door.
Doze off?
Thirty small brown-red-yellow-speckled birds usurp seeds at the swinging feeders in frenzied unharmonious clatter,
While the low moan of iron hinged gate closes pale hay and tall horses into the corral.
Rest?
Urgently a growling lawn mower slashes green strands of life and delicate insects from their microcosms of Little Earth,
And calico barn cats dive from rafters onto feed sacks to devour the crunch of breakfast.
Lao Tzu speaks no sound, eyes watch
Two butterflies sweep though moist morning monsoon air.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
Yes, mechanical leaf mover,
create the shrillest sounds known to man.
See if it doesn't just slowly make the world a ******** place
by taking away the joy of crunchy leafs,
which gradually become moist, squishy leafs,
then, after a long period, emerging from a snow covering
thaw and lie there, fully exposed, recumbent,
depriving the dormant seed of grass its sunlight, preventing grass,
freeing up water for infrastructure needs more urgent and rational
than supporting the most boring of decorative plants encompassing our lives.
I guess what I'm saying is that, not only are your sounds annoying,
they're just another of the short-sighted endeavors our present society insists on.
You are the "circumcision-for-hygiene-purposes" of our urban planning.
**** you, leaf blower. **** you and the excruciating environmental ignorance you represent.
I SAID **** YOU, LEAF BLOWER, YET YOU PERSIST!
You need to let that leafy-foreskin grow,
covering the shaft of ground.
Rid it of the pleasure-impeding growth of grass!
Let the earth cry out for the sensation of tiny points of pressure
moving delicately along its surface.
Let the ground erupt with wild flowers, or at the very least,
the trampled exuberance of plodded soil
and the desperate levels of human debris that would collect upon it.
Or are you trying to hide our wastefulness from us by removing something
which is nothing, a nothing, invisible barrier?
You've already succeeded in giving my apartment complex the ambience
of an industrial production complex
which I suppose it always was.
Maybe your attempt at concealment
has been a revelation.
Or maybe I just can't think straight,
because there's been a ******* leaf blower
circling below my window all morning
and now a heavy, riding lawn mower is coming to cut the grass
that hasn't grown since September
but has been watered every day
even though it froze last night
and it's almost November.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
Grubby little hands
and sugar encrusted mouths
leaving chocolate hugs and kisses
on a white Hanes t-shirt
in a late summer sun
the man in the stained shirt laughs
telling stories until you laugh too, so hard
you roll in the grass with your brother
streaking your denim knees green
and you beg him to play with you
just one more game, please!
because he is the best at everything
as close as you can get to invincible
and when he picks you up at the end of the day
tickles you, herds you inside
you can smell the lawn mower grease
and the shellac from his shop
and the peppermint, always the peppermint,
from the gum that snaps! in his mouth
then before you know it
you’re sitting shotgun in his rusted pickup
the radio singing classic rock
like always
windows rolled down
hat perched back on his head
whistling through his teeth
like always
but you’re on a new road
and your boxes are packed in the back
and when he hugs you
you feel like the little girl
that you’re not anymore
and you’re not quite ready to say goodbye
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
In this household there’s far too much noise!...your mobile, your pager, your palmtop, your laptop, your desktop, your land-line, your radio, your plasma screen, your mp3, your ***** driver, your GPS, your audio-books, your lawn-mower, your toothbrush, your stereo, your play-station, your VCR, your hairdryer, your podcasts, your DVD player, your digital clock, your analogue clock, your juicer, my ******** your drill...
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 10:11 AM UTC
Nanu, I had a dream last night that you came back
From being gone almost 3 years
We embraced and I told you I missed you so much
It was bittersweet, really.
I had seen you, and then you disappeared.
Like a shadow, when the sun decides to sleep.
I could've slept eternally knowing I would've been with you; forever
I remember when you were first diagnosed with lung cancer.
You held a smooth stone and told me, "Emily this stone is going to heal me one day."
You told me how it would make you better.
I remember one thanksgiving you gave me a glass of your wine
It was, bittersweet.
Vinegary as it ate away my tastebuds
Sweet like strawberries marinading in sugar, only.. Wine is made out of grapes... You taught me that.
Its funny, you used to let me sit upon your lap when you mowed the lawn, it was my own mistake for crashing it into the fence.
It was, bittersweet.
I got to drive a lawn mower and you had to fix the fence.
I look back to how happy you were on the sun porch in the summer heat, especially when lightening would strike the area around us,
I'd hide my face in your tarnished sweater
It was, bittersweet.
This morning I stood in the snow
Inhaling the heavy smoke of my marlboro cigarette
Weeping as I stared at the sky,
Then I remembered, you didn't disappear, you just went on vacation for awhile.
It's bittersweet, really.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
the neighbor has just started to mow
cutting grass is his favorite pastime
he manicures the lawn nice and low
the sound of the mower's droning chime
seems to be sweet music to his ears
cutting grass is his favorite pastime
his lawns kept tidy over many years
the grass not allowed to get too long
seems to be sweet music to his ears
he's oft heard singing a barber's song
as he trims the lawn with his old Rover
the grass never allowed to get too long
he takes pride in his patch of clover
the blades of grass never look mussed
as he trims the lawn with his old Rover
about his yard he's meticulous and fussed
the blades of grass never look mussed
the neighbor has just started to mow
he manicures the lawn nice and low
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 5:51 AM UTC
My boyfriend won’t cut his horrible hair
It’s quite a horrible mess
And it gives me quite a horrible scare
This I just must horribly confess
It takes hours to wash his hair
And hours more to get it dry
He resembles a tamed grizzly bear
And he doesn’t get just why
The tangles and knots cover his face
It’s practically impossible to see
There’s a boy hidden behind the space
Between the wild hair and shrubbery
I got him a comb to manage the terror
Before the stress gave me a stroke
But when he brushed it, I realized my error
When the comb I gave him, finally broke
I tried to introduce him to family
And it was a horribly embarrassing task
The scarcely groomed anomaly
Was what everybody talked about and asked
We went to the park and as we talked
A crow swooped down low
It sat in his hair and as we walked
It laid several eggs on the go
I finally had enough of his hair
And got a brand new lawn mower
How he’d react I did not care
His bushy hair days were finally over
When the monster mower growled
How my frightened boyfriend ran
As his hair fell off he howled
But out emerged a gentleman
He can finally see his face in the mirror
But there are hills of hair in the yard
I've learned skills of a master sheep shearer
But left my poor boyfriend heartbroken and scarred
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC
I always had trouble with my keyboard.
Some of the letters were too tight and never moved,
you had to slam them in order to get the words you wanted
and even the most sincere love letter
could sound like a strongly worded email to the nearest Costco
because you found that same 3 pound box of popcorn at Walmart for like 50 cents cheaper.
But the other keys were loose and fell out,
I always put them back on
but I always seemed to lose U.
It was like no matter how much I put U back together
U always fell on the floor.
My friends all urged me to forget about it
and get myself a new keyboard,
they said "come on Alyssa,
you know you need something that stays longer than a few weeks"
but I was too scared that the price of finding something new
outweighed my frustration for picking U up
and just putting U back together again.
Sometimes I wish U could be tough,
that way I didn't have to be terrified of breaking U
if I didn't feel gentle that day,
in case I really was writing that strongly worded email to Costco.
Because there are days when I am not soft and warm,
when I feel more like the lawn mower than the soft grass underneath of it.
Some days I feel like ripping out the X on my keyboard
because it has not moved once since I got it
and replacing it with U
just so U could finally stay where I put it
even if it meant I didn't use U anymore.
At least I would always know
U wouldn't move without my permission.
But that would mean that X would be falling out of place,
and God knows that I need to keep my X's where they belong.
But this isn't about the X,
and this wasn't about U,
this was about my inability to change
and my constant fear of imminent loneliness.
You see I'm not so afraid of being alone,
but feeling lonely scares the living hell out of me
so I would rather find someone broken and patch them up,
make sure they need me a lot more than I need them
so I know they won't leave first,
than find someone who has all of their pieces
and is capable of staying intact without my help.
That is the one who knows that they are so much better without me,
that I am just dead weight
and I am more likely to cause their death by drowning them
than helping them swim to shore.
But for Christmas I asked for a gift card to Best Buy
so I could buy myself a new keyboard.
I just hope I'm strong enough
to throw U out
when it gets here.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
Cool kid euphoria with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on is what we all are in the basement of the 50’s house.
Our phones blowing up while we sip whiskey and wine.
Trying to get the attention of the cars on the main road
By handstanding and flashing and cheersing our beers
And we receive our victorious honks.
Guitar clock radio with numbers around the fretboard and Sir Paul smiling and crooked, acid-trippin’ guitarist/violinist/celloist looking product of orange and gold look down upon as our patron saints.
Swingin’ low, Sweet Chariot words stares up at me from the 70’s floral carpet.
Ralph Stanley and Eric Clapton singing solos and duets in my head keep me company as the boys play and figure out key changes.
Painted screen hiding the Etta James microphone stands forgotten in the corner—
As I take in the teals and roses and golds.
Give me a heart shaped box where I can store my love
I fly so high in the world above
I’ll come back down eventually.
Lava lamped water stain engulfs the ceiling. As fingers go up frets
And they go down frets
And they go up frets
And they go down frets.
As you don’t enunciate when you sing.
We all mourn our fallen brethren, the base of the telecaster with no strings and no head and it weeps silently from its place on the water pipes, hearing his cousins WAAAIIIIILLLLLL.
As Cool kid euphoria is created with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on in the basement of the 50’s house.
We work all day so we can drink all night
Getting high off the drug that is each other
Chain-smoking Pall Malls like it’s our job
Listening to oldies as we shoot the eight ball in the corner pocket.
Garden tools and Lawn Mower parts as a sweet, creepy décor in the dank basement
As we breathe in mold and dust and cigarette smoke.
We are gloriously young.
So **** off.
We still think we can change the world.
Not through politics or through fear or by means of war
But by doing just enough to get by and loving everybody for who they are, even the parts or religions or particular ways of life we don’t like,
Because people aren’t what they do or what they believe
They’re who they are.
We still think we can change the world
And Maybe one day, we will
But for now
We’ll just be here,
In the basement of the 50’s house with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:38 AM UTC
SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy fire,
**** Winter's blooming child ; delightful Spring !
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crowned ;
From the green islands of eternal youth,
(Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever springing shade,)
Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding winds,
And thro' the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.
Thee, best belov'd ! the ****** train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,
With untir'd feet ; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favour'd youth
That prompts their whisper'd sigh.
Unlock thy copious stores ; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem.
And feed the slowering osier's early shoots ;
And call those winds which thro' the whispering boughs
With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.
Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ;
And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.
O nymph approach ! while yet the temperate sun
With bashful forehead, thro' the cool moist air
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woes
The earth's fair ***** ; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade
Protect thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.
Sweet is thy reign, but short ; The red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.
Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewel ;
For O, not all the Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
Can aught for thee atone
Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.
2.2k
I found a spoon in my garden.
Could you even call this a garden?
The planters are all full of
pine needles and stagnancy.
Even the bench I'm sitting on
is rotting and covered in ants.
Anyway this spoon was barely visible
among the dead leaves and dog ****
Not rusty, save for the edges that had been
knicked by a lawn mower at some time
and then bent perfectly
down the
middle.
A memory of playing superheroes
disrupts my study.
Someone was trying to prove their
strength by bending it
"with their mind".
Eventually we tired of our
mind's lack of capabilities
and used brute force to
bend the dreaded spoon
but the celebration was nonetheless
sweet after being able to bend
our mother's cutlery.
Back then the garden was tended.
My mother put us to work
and my
"secret garden" was born partly
out of my imagination and
a lack of reality.
My mother called one plant
"lamb's ear" and I didn't
argue because it was the softest
thing I had ever felt or ever will feel.
Did she make that name up?
Surely, she wouldn't lie to me.
And now that lamb's ear, like
everything else is covered in
a thick, itchy layer of pine straw
and stagnancy. To let the plants
even begin to heal from their
prolonged exposure to cold,
mistifying darkness I would have
to scratch through the
allergy-inducing tentacles.
Push them out of the way.
Dig up the dead, dry earth,
plant new seeds and tend to them
arduously--all while wondering
why couldn't my family just
take care of what they had?
but then I notice this spoon.
I've gotten carried away again
and now I forgot to write about
what I meant to write about in
the first place.
It's not healthy to let things rust.
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
the neighbor has just started to mow
cutting grass is his favorite pastime
he manicures the lawn nice and low
the sound of the mower's droning chime
seems to be sweet music to his ears
cutting grass is his favorite pastime
his lawn kept tidy over many years
the grass not allowed to get too long
seems to be sweet music to his ears
he's oft hear singing a barber's song
as he trims his lawn with his old Rover
the grass not allowed to get too long
he takes pride in his patch of clover
the blades of grass never look mussed
as he trims the lawn with his old Rover
about his yard he's meticulous and fussed
the blades of grass never look mussed
the neighbor has just started to mow
he manicures the lawn nice and low
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 4:03 AM UTC